


In for a Penny, in for a Pound

by assetessa (orphan_account)



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Heist, LOTS of booze, M/M, Multi, Pining, Polyamory, Three dorks trying to steal something, Threesome - F/M/M, but they steal each others hearts instead, thats it thats the plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2020-07-23 00:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20000632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/assetessa
Summary: Trevor Belmont is looking for a crew. Adrian Țepeș is looking for a chance for revenge. And Sypha Belnades is looking for a job. They all find each other, for better or worse. What follows is an utter shitshow involving lots of expensive wine, a three-way love triangle, plenty of awkward family reunions and possibly even a heist or two here and there.





	1. Season's Stealings (It's July)

**Author's Note:**

> Binged this show, fell in love, got my heart smashed to pieces. Turned to fanfiction for therapy. We're all in the same boat here.  
> This is my first fic, and is also unbetaed, so feedback would be enormously appreciated.  
> Hope you all enjoy. :)

It was always cold in London.

Of course it didn't matter that it was mid-July, nearing the peak of summer, nor did it matter that global warming fucking existed. It was still cold and dreary and overcast, pouring rain—merely more gray among the slate-colored roads and sky and buildings and coats of passers-by. 

But Trevor wouldn't want it any different. He'd grown up here, and now it was firmly rooted in the way the world should be in his eyes; the sun rose in the east, Brexit was never going to fucking happen, and London was always gray. It was just life. 

The drizzle that hung in the air like perpetual mist slowly turned into an earnest downpour, and people all around him on the street began opening up their umbrellas, mechanically, all at the same time. Trevor was probably the only person who didn't, merely turning his coat collar up against the wind as he moved down the street. 

Even in the rain, he turned heads as he walked. He knew he did—he knew exactly how to use what he had, and he had it on good account that God had done a pretty good job with him. He didn't downplay it either, making sure he drew as many eyes as possible whenever he wanted the attention. 

He caught sight of his reflection in one of the shop windows spattered with rain; designer suit, no tie and the first few buttons purposefully undone, all the darkest shade of black with a dark blue coat thrown over it all, worn but still crisp. It seemed plain, but the coat was the precise color of his eyes, and all the black just made it stand out more. 

It felt good to have so many eyes on him, especially the younger women, the girls whose taste in sheer, skimpy dresses even summer rain couldn't dampen. They looked at him openly through absurdly long fake lashes as he walked by, and to amuse himself he winked at a couple of them. Some giggled and looked away, some were bold enough to smile back, and some turned away. Either way, none of it mattered in the end—it was all brief, all superficial, nothing real. 

The rain began to fall harder, thunder rumbling in slow waves through the sky and making lightning fork out in jagged silver lines above him. Broken from his reverie he jumped at the loud boom of thunder from above, and ducked below the awning of a nearby shop reluctantly—as much as he needed to be where he needed to be, he didn't want to ruin his coat, or his hair. 

He glanced back at the little café he had ducked into, grimacing at the shabby exterior and probably just as shabby interior. Perhaps if it hadn't been raining so hard, he'd have been able to take his chances with walking on, but for now he was stuck here. And since he was, he might as well go in. 

Sighing, he opened the door, moving inside. It definitely looked better on the inside, and while it was dimly lit it was rather cute, with a bohemian sort of 70's theme to the whole thing. The air smelled pleasantly of vanilla and coffee, and there were brightly colored squashy bean bags and tables strewn everywhere, some with people sitting in them. 

He moved to the counter, behind which someone—someone with admittedly good taste, according to him—had taped a huge black-and-white retro poster of Queen, the four band members appearing to be gazing rather condescendingly down at whoever ordered their coffee. He reached the counter, tapping a finger against the old, shiny wood as he waited. 

"What can I whip up for...?" The short, rather petite barista behind the counter looked up at him midway through her sentence, and blinked wide eyes when she got a look at his face. She blushed, then cleared her throat. "For you?" she finished. 

While Trevor would usually take full advantage of the girl's dazzled expression, for some reason the thought didn't even cross his mind. Perhaps it was because she looked genuinely embarrassed, or perhaps because she was so damn cute—huge, baby blue eyes, pale skin with freckles scattered across her nose and cheekbones, and a cloud of short strawberry-blonde curls. That, and the fact that she probably came up to his chest if she stood straight. 

"Just coffee," he said, trying not to stare. "Black," he added, and he could see John Deacon silently judging him from the poster above, probably at his mundane choice of beverage. He made a face at him when the barista glanced down to punch his order in. 

"And your name...?" She looked back up, sharpie poised on the cup, and he waved a dismissive hand. "Trevor."

She scribbled it down, then smiled at him. He could see a dimple on her left cheek, oddly endearing. "It'll be ready in five. Take a seat."

He dropped her a nod, then moved to an empty table, sitting and heaving a sigh. He was late, and the man he was meeting didn't really like it when he was kept waiting. Then he remembered who he was meeting with, and decided he didn't care. The more he annoyed him, the better. Even if it was the first time they were meeting in person. _Especially_ since it was the first time they were meeting in person.

He found his gaze straying to the counter, where the cute redheaded barista was taking someone else's order, biting her lip as she wrote something down on a cup, lifting her head to smile at the customer in front of the counter. As she did she appeared to sense Trevor's eyes on her and cut her gaze to his, her cheeks reddening as she held his stare. 

She looked away quickly, clearly flustered, turning away and tucking a wayward curl of hair behind her ear as she did. He watched her for a few more minutes, something about her nagging at his mind. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew it was there—he could read people easier than anyone, something he prided himself on, and something that was invaluable in his line of work. 

But he couldn't read this girl. No matter how hard he looked and how much he focused, nothing spoke to him. All that he came up with were question marks and the lingering sense that she wasn't exactly what she wanted him to think she was. Perhaps he was merely paranoid, seeing everyone around him with suspicion, but he had a feeling. 

He heaved another theatrical sigh, pulling his phone out of his pocket and gazing moodily at the screen, debating whether or not to call his associate. He'd probably already be at their meeting place, waiting for Trevor. The least he could do was call and tell him to wait a little longer.

Making a face, he dialed the number from memory, since he hadn't saved the contact; most of the business Trevor dealt in involved a lot of intentionally unanswered calls and messages, and in the (unlikely, but he had to be prepared for anything) case someone pinched his phone, he couldn't have important people's names for anyone to see and misuse. 

His partner picked up on the third ring, voice cool and smooth and collected as always. "Țepeș."

"I'm going to be late," Trevor said without introduction. "You already there?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." His voice was haughty, arrogant. "You could've called earlier, I've been here half an hour already."

"It's raining, Țepeș. I'm wearing Armani. Those two don't mix. I'll be there in fifteen, just make sure you're not plastered by the time I get there."

"If you're not here by five-thirty, I'm leaving," said the cold voice at the other end, and Trevor rolled his eyes inwardly. "Hurry up." With that, the line disconnected. Trevor made a face at the screen, stowing his phone back into his pocket. Stupid fucking rich people. 

He was pulled from his mental tirade at the sudden appearance of the barista, holding a gently steaming coffee cup. She set it down on his table, wiping her palms off on the apron emblazoned with the coffeeshop logo and offering him a little smile. Again, he tried to read something off of her—whether she was sleeping with the blond barista behind the counter who'd been staring at her ass the whole time Trevor had been in the café, whether she was a student or not, whether this was her first or her last shift. 

"Thanks," he said instead, dropping her a nod. His eyes dropped to the little name tag pinned to her chest, which read _Sypha_. She merely nodded back, moving back towards the counter. His eyes clung to her as she did, and he found himself not exactly blaming the blond guy for staring at her. 

He was halfway through his coffee when he realized it was getting late, and while the rain outside was still pretty heavy, he couldn't exactly sit in here forever. Sighing, he set his coffee cup down, fishing in his pocket for his wallet. Fumbling a couple quid out, he was just about to pick up his cup again when the girl— _Sypha_ , he remembered from her name tag—came bustling by, wielding a cloth to wipe the table down and a bottle of spray cleaner. 

"Keep the change," he told her as he passed, and she jumped at the suddenness of his voice in her ear, tripping over his feet as she did. He nearly dropped his coffee cup as he caught her, and then her huge blue eyes were inches from his own, her hands gripping his arms as the bottle of spray cleaner fell at their feet. She smelled like something sweet—gardenias, or lilies. 

"I'm so sorry," she gasped, making to move back and tripping again. He pulled her upright and she blushed, stepping back and crouching to pick up the fallen bottle. It had rolled to a stop right at his foot and he knelt beside her, handing it to her as she blushed again. 

"Sorry," she said breathlessly. "I'm just so clumsy sometimes."

"We all have our moments." He offered her his most charming smile and she seemed to melt a little, fighting a smile as she bit her lip. They stood and she ducked her head, moving towards the table again as he hesitated for a second, then moved on, rather regretfully leaving the coffeeshop. Oh, well. At least he'd left his number on the table under the money.

He moved quickly into the rain, walking briskly so as to avoid getting his clothes too wet. Thankfully the upscale bar that he supposed to go to wasn't too far away, a few streets ahead at most. He jogged across the street, glancing right and left as he moved away from the little coffeeshop.

He glanced at his watch to check the time, to see if he was late—but his wrist was bare, his watch missing. He blinked, stopping in his tracks and checking his pockets to see if he'd dropped it there and didn't remember, but it wasn't there. Had he left it at the coffeeshop, at the table? But he hadn't taken it off...

It hit him the second after he thought it, and it made him laugh out loud. _Of fucking course._ The girl, Sypha—she'd been a shade too sweet and innocently flustered, and had been just clumsy enough to seem normal and also to slip his watch off his wrist when he'd helped her. It was an irony that she'd chosen to hustle him of all the people to have walked into the place that day.

He couldn't believe he'd fallen for the cheapest trick in the book, but he had to commend her. She'd pulled it off pretty well. No wonder he hadn't been able to get a hold on her, pin down details and see past her guard. 

He didn't bother turning back; he deserved to have his watch lifted since he'd been so distracted. He'd let his guard down, and she'd used her advantage of a pretty face and a tight dress, and she'd hustled him good. He let it slide, still smiling a little to himself as he walked along the street, finally reaching the building. 

He moved into the lobby, heading up the elevator onto the fortieth floor, where the bar was. It was full of affluent, opulent people, most of them to do business. He had to admit he preferred the seedier sort of bars, but here he could use his background to get himself a good rep—something that got him a kick in the nuts in the seedier bars. 

He found his associate easily enough—he was one of the only people sitting alone, and moreover he was striking, even from halfway across the room, sitting in a way that his mother would have called _insouciant_ —leaning back with his legs crossed and an arm thrown over the back of his chair. He moved towards the table, shrugging off his coat and handing it to a waiter who'd stretched out a hand for it as he passed by. 

"Sorry I'm late," he said as he slid into the chair opposite. There was a bottle of wine on the table, a fourth of it empty. There was a tall wineglass pinched between his partner's fingers, one that he lifted to his lips as Trevor sat down. 

"No, you're not," he said as he lowered his glass. He raised an eyebrow smoothly and Trevor spread his hands self-deprecatingly. "What can I say? Twenty-two years in this hellhole of a city and I still can't stand summer showers. And I thought I told you not to get smashed by the time I got here."

"There's something called an umbrella, I believe." He set his glass down, shifting in his seat to face Trevor fully and sighing. "And it'd take more than half a bottle of wine to get me drunk," he added, then fixed him with a scrutinizing gaze. It made Trevor squirm just a little; his eyes seemed to see straight through him, and moreover, he was _hot._

And it wasn't just regular, typical hotness—it was otherworldly almost, what with his flawless pale skin, large, catlike amber eyes and masses of blond hair that tumbled over his broad shoulders, loose but styled. Trevor had looked him up when they arranged their first meeting, and while he'd been prepared for it, it was still startling up close how pretty he was. He hadn't thought blokes could be described as pretty, but Adrian Țepeș couldn't be described any other way. 

He nodded a little, as if Trevor had passed some invisible test. "Fine," he said. "Why did you call me here?"

Trevor reached over the table, pouring himself a glass of wine. He took a sip, grimacing a little—expensive wine was always on the bitter side, and he'd always thought it could be improved by a few spoonfuls of honey. "Straight to business, then?" he asked as he set his glass down, half-filled. "Fine, then."

He leaned forward, not looking away from him when he spoke next. "I called you here," he said clearly, "because I want your help to steal your father's family ring and make a fuckton of money off of it."

Adrian's eyes widened fractionally, the only show of his surprise. He set his glass down from where it had frozen halfway to his lips. He blinked at Trevor, then cleared his throat. His face was entirely expressionless when he spoke next, save for the faintest of glints in his eye. 

"I've had worse offers in my time," he said, leaning forward too. "But please, go on. I have a feeling this is going to be interesting."

*

Sypha shut the door of her apartment behind her, sighing as she dropped her bag on the floor by the coat-stand. Her keys jingled merrily as she set them on the kitchen counter, then went straight to her couch and collapsed onto it.

She let her head fall back onto the cushion, closing her eyes. She'd had a fight with the manager of the coffeeshop— _again_. He'd yelled at her over something stupid like dropping a fucking penny on the ground, and then she'd yelled back, and he'd threatened to fire her if she raised her voice again. She wasn't even working there permanently—it was just so that she could scrape by, run the occasional con on unsuspecting customers. 

Her temper had already been short, and then Elliot had asked her out again, for the fifth time. And she had told him no, for the fifth time. He was nice and all, but he was beginning to piss her off. How many times did boys need to be told no to get the fucking message?

She reached into her pocket, pulling out the heavy silver watch she'd lifted earlier that evening off that man—Trevor's, she remembered vaguely—wrist. It had been easier this time, so she must have been improving. Men were irritatingly predictable; all it took was a flash of thigh, or a bat of long eyelashes or casual, "accidental" physical contact, and she could take their heads off their shoulders if she wanted to. 

She hadn't minded this time, though. He'd been startlingly handsome, with windblown black hair that still had droplets of rain caught in the dark strands and flame-blue eyes that had appeared calculating and bored at the same time. It didn't hurt that he'd left her his number on the table, scribbled on a piece of paper under the notes. 

She'd even noticed him staring—not the way Elliot or other boys did, greedy and possessive—but as if he were assessing her, appraising almost. He had obviously been from the wealthier side of London, and she'd singled him out as a target immediately; who wore a Rolex to a fucking coffeeshop? 

She slid the watch onto her wrist. It was way too big for her, and it was heavy, but she liked the coolness of the metal on her skin. She sighed, setting it down on the coffee table and leaning back, lost in thought. Her fingers, reaching into her pocket again, snagged on a piece of paper. Drawing it out, she saw the number Trevor had scrawled there, and laughed a little to herself. 

This wasn't the first time she'd gotten a number from a hopeful customer, but she threw them all away. It was never flattering, but for some reason this time it was. Maybe because he was obviously rich and had looked at her of all people, or maybe because it felt like this was less of an invitation for a one-night-stand and more business almost. Like he knew something about her, and wanted to know more. 

_Or maybe you're just in over your head and he just wants to have sex,_ a more practical, nastier voice in her head said snidely. Her gaze fell on the watch on the coffee table. She'd sell it and make good money off it, and she'd throw the number away and then she'd never have anything more to do with Trevor whoever he was. 

She picked up the watch, moving over to the kitchen with the piece of paper in her hand. She flipped the bin's lid open, hovering the paper over it. She hesitated, then sighed with frustration and turned back, dropping the paper and the watch on her bedside table before heading into the bathroom to get ready for bed. 

She splashed water onto her face, gazing tiredly at herself in the mirror. When was her life going to pick itself up? How long could she go on just lifting and pinching and hacking like a petty criminal? She'd been hired for a job or two on the side, but the money was never good. She needed a real job, somewhere she could use all of her talents. But so far, there had been nothing. 

She stripped down to a tank top and shorts, crawling into bed. Her eyes lingered on the piece of paper next to her phone, the number written across it but no name. On the back, in an elegant scrawl, was written, _Call me?_ with a winking face drawn next to it. 

She huffed out a laugh, picking it up again, running a finger along the numbers. It'd be so easy to just pick up her phone and call him, even if he probably knew by now that she'd been the one who'd stolen his watch. She bit her lip, then set the paper down again on her nightstand. 

She reached over and yanked on her lamp's cord, bathing the room in darkness. The only sound was the gentle ticking of the watch on her bedside table, and the faint pattering of rain on her window. She fell asleep to their sounds, and just before she did she had the oddest feeling that that man—Trevor—wasn't exactly what he seemed to be.

*

Adrian was on his fifth glass of wine already, and he was beginning to feel a bit drunk; he felt lightheaded, and the sprawling London skyline spread out below him was wheeling and shimmering in front of his eyes.

He was lounging on the couch in front of the glass wall of his apartment—which happened to be on the top floor of Centre Point—watching the night smear by outside. He could see through the skyscraper's huge neon block lettering and out to the sky, which was the deepest of dark blues. The light pollution and exhaust from traffic down below hid the stars. 

He had been sitting there for the better part of the evening, merely thinking. He had just received what was probably the most outrageous, most clever and most dangerous offer of his life. He could either get himself flayed alive, he could find himself in prison for the rest of his life, or he could be rich—well, richer—and finally make a statement he'd been wanting to make for years. It was a near-impossible decision. 

Which explained the wine. He found it best to make decisions whilst sipping Domaine Leroy, sitting on his couch and gazing out at London spread out below his feet, blooming with light as the night took over, like a bed of electric flowers. 

He made up for all the opulence though, sitting with only an old pair of sweatpants on. The air was cool but not too cool on his bare skin, and he'd left his hair loose, and it brushed the small of his back as he leaned forward to fill his glass for the sixth time. 

He took another sip, contemplating rather tipsily as he had been for the past hour or so. He'd returned home at around seven, and had skipped dinner, instead immediately making a beeline for his wine cellar—not really a cellar, more of a little room off the kitchen—and then the couch. 

_I want your help to steal your father's family ring and make a fuckton of money off of it,_ Trevor had said. Of course, half of London knew about Adrian's feud with his father, who had wanted him to take over their family business. Adrian had refused, wanting to go his own way, and he'd been turned away from home. 

Rather than being an outcast or drinking his way into oblivion and out of people's memories—which he'd certainly considered—he started his own business, rising so far he outstripped his own father, all while keeping his father's name so that people knew _exactly_ who he was. 

Which obviously didn't sit well with his father. 

And while being generally more successful and more wealthy and well-known than his father, both for his business and also basically all but flipping his father off in public, was more than satisfying, that betrayal was still there, something that told him that his own father had turned him away just because he wanted to be his own person. There was something personal about it that Adrian hadn't exactly addressed. 

He'd briefly toyed with the idea of buying his father's company, but he'd dismissed it at the end, deciding it wasn't worth it. It wasn't personal enough—nothing seemed to be. And going back home was not an option. He wasn't ready for that yet. He'd been brooding about getting even with his father for years, and now Trevor Belmont had arrived and dropped it right into Adrian's lap. 

He took another sip of wine, sighing. He hadn't known exactly what to think of Trevor Belmont—the youngest son of a family that had been his own family's biggest rival back in the day. They weren't exactly on the best of terms, but he'd never met Trevor Belmont until earlier that day. 

He was unfairly handsome, Adrian thought moodily, with a jawline that could slice salami and eyes the color of distilled twilight and black hair that was just the perfect combination of messy and styled, so it looked more like he'd just rolled out of some supermodel's bed rather than looking like he'd just walked through a tornado. He found himself wondering how it'd feel if he ran his fingers through it—soft, or silky? Smooth or satiny?

He took another long sip of wine, shoving the thoughts away. He must have been more drunk than he'd thought. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about Trevor Belmont's hair, or his eyes or his chiseled jawline, or the near-subsonic timbre of his voice that mad made shivers ripple down his spine and made him muse on how it might sound if that voice were purring his name into his ear...

 _Stop,_ he told himself sternly and maybe a little drunkenly. _You're supposed to work with Trevor, not fantasize about sleeping with him._ Besides, they barely knew each other. Even if their families had centuries worth of beef between them.

He went to pour himself another glass, then realized the bottle was empty. Gazing mournfully at the dregs of wine left at the bottom of the now-empty bottle he set it down beside the coffee table, setting his glass down. 

His eyes fell on his phone, lying carelessly on the couch beside him. 

He bit his lip, thinking hard. This could be it—carrying out a heist that could end either his father's career, or his own. The stakes were outrageously high, but it was finally something that he could do to make his father know that it was Adrian who was doing this, taking something that was rightfully his and claiming it for his own. 

This was his chance to finally get revenge. 

"Fuck," he whispered, and snatched his phone up before he could lose his bravado, shaking fingers clumsily dialing the number from memory—it was never safe to have important numbers saved on one's phone, in case anyone unsavory found it—and holding it to his ear. 

He shut his eyes and waited. One ring... two... three... four...

He was just beginning to wonder if calling Trevor at two in the morning was a good idea when he picked up, thankfully sounding very much awake. "Well, Țepeș? Ready to give me an answer?"

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "I'm in."


	2. The First Entry in the Long List of 'Times Sypha Judged Trevor'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trevor is Judged, Sypha is a Badass, and Adrian is Skeptical.

Trevor's phone rang and he glanced over at it warily; he'd gotten a sudden wave of voicemails over the last hour, and that was never a good sign. If it led to a call eventually, then that was an even worse sign. 

The caller ID read, _DO NOT ANSWER._

He let it ring, leaning back and sighing. Eventually it stopped ringing, and he picked it up, frowning at the screen. It was hardwired to seem like he was unreachable unless he picked up, which guaranteed escape from unwanted calls. He was meticulous with this stuff, making sure he was accessible only when he wanted to be, and to whom he wanted to be. 

Adrian had agreed to help, and while he'd told him that the whole thing was mainly to get the money and to some extent cripple one of the leading tycoons in Europe, he hadn't breathed a word of his real motives. He was a conman; it was his job to lie.

It wasn't as if he was broke. It was the opposite, actually—he came from a fair bit of money himself, and his family owned a pretty large estate in France, where they stayed. His eldest sister was one of the most influential lawyers in the world, and lived with her wife—who happened to be a supermodel—in America, and his other sister was a businesswoman, having taken over the family business instead of Trevor. 

And Trevor—well, he got by without really working per se, but he did make a fair bit of money running the occasional heist, maybe hustling a few people here and there. It wasn't stable exactly, but he'd pulled off a few grand ones in his time. He was well-known underground, and above it too. A man who walked the line between both worlds, he mused, sliding his phone back into his pocket. 

Despite not exactly having a job, he lived well, as a result of a mixture of stolen cash, hustled cash and inherited cash. He'd bought a place in Kensington Palace Gardens, which all but spoke for the fact that he had no trouble paying the bills—and it wasn't like he wanted more, but he wanted _better._

Something about the fact that there was nobody to share it all with nagged at him, and while he wasn't your average romantic, it was all too much with too little—the bed too big, the house too empty, the table too lonely. The occasional one-night-stand didn't count, since he'd never brought anyone back home. It was too personal for some reason, too intimate. He wasn't exactly comfortable with it. 

He sighed, tapping his glass against the table. He was thinking himself into broody circles, something he usually did when he was in that not-exactly drunk and not-exactly sober phase. He couldn't exactly help it; he wasn't a maudlin drunk, but he tended to either overthink, or not think at all. 

He knew that now that Adrian was in, he needed another member in the crew. Several others, if experience was anything to judge from. Adrian was key, though—he had a grudge against his father, and he could get them inside anywhere and not make it look conspicuous of obvious that they were up to something.

So that meant he needed a lifter, or a cat burglar; he needed muscle, tech skills, and a getaway driver. He sighed, picking up his phone again, meaning to go through his contact list to see if there were an hints he could use. He needed the best of the best to pull this one off, otherwise it wouldn't work. 

He scrolled through his contacts, frowning down at the screen. 

_DO NOT ANSWER_

_DO NOT ANSWER_

_DO NOT ANSWER_

_Magpie 1_

_Magpie 2_

_Magpie 3_

_Mother—ONLY IF URGENT_

_Father—DO NOT ANSWER_

_That American Bastard from Budapest_

_Answer Only on Sunday, Tuesday and Wednesday_

_Emergency_

He sighed, making a face at it and setting it down again. He could call the Magpies—a group of elite thieves that had operations all over the world, London included. They could probably get him the most experienced people out there, but he didn't want that, not really. He needed skill, but he also needed compatibility, no competition. 

And with the Magpies, it was all about competition. 

He shook his head mostly to himself, picking up his glass of whiskey and downing the rest of it in one go. It burned a trail of fire down his throat, making his insides warm up pleasantly and lend a blurry shimmer to his vision. He leaned back, thinking. If he wanted things to go well, he needed to start looking soon. Tomorrow. 

He glanced down at his wrist, worrying at his lower lip. Ever since he'd had his watch stolen he'd been thinking about it, about that girl. She'd been slight, slender, short, with clever fingers and an even cleverer mind, if she could assess and weigh and execute almost flawlessly in barely ten minutes. 

He exhaled, chewing harder on his lip. There was a crazy little idea blooming in his brain, one that told him that it would somehow end up working out in the end. He ran through another short list of contacts in his head, but he knew that in the end he'd settle for one person only, someone he could trust to pull off the lift perfectly.

He nodded decisively to himself, poured himself another glass of whiskey, powered up his laptop and got down to business.

*

It was bright outside, the sky the clear blue of bottle glass. Sypha had stepped out in between her shifts for a break, leaning against the wall outside the café, a long, slender cigarette dangling between her fingers as she scrolled through messages on her phone.

It hadn't been a particularly productive few days—she'd debated with herself time and time again whether or not to sell that damn watch, and in the end she'd decided to let it stay put for now. She'd tucked it into her pocket where it rested, a heavy, comfortable weight against her thigh. 

She lowered her phone, exhaling a trail of smoke. It was clear but chilly, and the wind was biting against the bare skin of her legs that wasn't covered by her skirt, and her sweater was much too thin to block out the wind. Still she didn't really feel the cold; she'd only been in London a few years, but it had been just as cold in Madrid in the winter months, if not colder sometimes.

She tapped the cigarette absently, watching the ash sift down onto the pavement. It got tiring sometimes, this job and this distant promise of something better for herself. Sometimes she considered just resigning and turning full-time to the other half of her life, the underground dealings and the petty thievery and the dazzling lies she decked herself in. 

But that wasn't all she wanted—ever since she was a little girl she'd wanted to give her family's customs the recognition they deserved, to tell people what they did and how they did it; the method of their education, the rigorous passing down of oral traditions and the lack of physical methods they used to learn. She'd made a promise to herself when she'd turned twelve, to start something that would stress its importance. 

She knew she could get there—she knew her own skills and saw no point in downplaying them; she was ruthless, confident and business-savvy, with a good flare for finance. She'd been homeschooled until her junior year of high school, after which she'd earned herself a degree in business management and entrepreneurship, and came out of it knowing four more languages, along with a myriad of other skills, which she knew would help invaluably if she wanted to start a business. 

Now all she needed was the money. 

Which explained the coffeeshop, and also the conning. 

She leaned her head against the wall, sighing and painting the air in front of her gray with smoke as she did. It was bad enough having a degree from one of the best colleges in Europe, but it was a thousand times worse when she thought about her job, and her tiny little apartment. 

"It's Sypha, isn't it?"

She jumped, nearly dropping her cigarette as she whirled around, surprised. Her eyes fell on a familiar figure—tall, broad-shouldered, a shock of untidy black hair, bright blue eyes...

She felt her heart beat a little faster, but whether it was with nervousness of apprehension or something else she had no idea. She was suddenly enormously aware of how short her skirt was, and how the t-shirt she was wearing underneath had a picture of Snoopy on it, and how her sweater had holes in the cuffs. 

"Yes," she said, leaning back further against the wall. She sighed, looking away from him a second later. "Look, if you're here for the watch—"

"I'm not, actually," he said, moving closer. He was dressed in a dark red suit and a beige trench coat, clearly expensive, but with little bits of scruffiness here and there that suggested a sort of ordinariness as well—his coat was unbuttoned, its belt undone and hanging loose behind him, and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone as well. His hair looked a mess, but it just made him look hotter. 

_I... totally would,_ she thought immediately, then kicked herself inwardly right after. God, what was she, thirteen?

"It was a good lift," he went on, stopping directly in front of her. He was so fucking tall. She made the mistake of looking down, then immediately forced her eyes up again, biting her lip. The faintest of smirks tilted his lips and she dropped her silly-little-girl routine, narrowing her eyes at him. 

"Not my best," she allowed, shrugging. "But thanks."

"I didn't even notice it," he went on. "Or hear it when you took it. How long have you been practicing?"

"Long enough." She crossed her arms. "What are you doing here?"

His eyes flicked to the door. "I'd rather not bring it up here. Is there anywhere a little more... private, where we can talk?"

She felt her brows furrow. "The alley next door is pretty... detached, if that's the sort of think you're looking for—but there's no way I'm just walking into some dark alley with a man I don't even know. Try harder than that, Trevor whoever you are."

He looked surprised for half a second, then laughed, shaking his head. "Fine, we'll talk here, but—God's sake, it's not like I'm a fucking mugger. When was the last time you saw a mugger in Louboutins?" He bounced a little on his shoes, affording her a glance of red soles that flashed fire as he did. 

She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Are you just here to show off your shoes, or do you actually want to talk about something?"

"Both, now that you mention it." He sent her a lopsided smile. "I'm working on something, something big." He shoved his hands in his pockets, head tilted back, the picture of casualness. But something in his eyes had shifted, something that told her now he meant business, and he was entirely serious about it. He looked dangerous almost, like a panther waiting to spring from the shadows onto unsuspecting prey. 

"Something such as...?" She eyed him curiously. 

He exhaled. "Like the biggest heist Europe has ever witnessed." He shrugged fairly in response to her stunned expression. "It's sort of what I do. I mastermind these things. I'm pretty sure you'll have done some work for my men before, one way or another."

"Wait." Her mind ticked over the possibilities, impossibly fast. Her mouth went dry as it clicked in her head, all the boxes, one after the other in rapid succession. Affluent, from a wealthy family, a huge name underground, running several operations...

"Trevor... Belmont?" she asked, disbelief echoing in her voice. "You're Trevor Belmont?"

"So you have heard of me." He looked pleased. "I thought so."

She stared at him. "But you can't be... I mean, you're so..."

He raised an eyebrow. 

"Uh, polished," she said, blushing. "I don't know, I guess I was expecting Al Pacino."

He snorted. "Underwhelmed, then. Pity." His eyes glinted as he ran them over her, and she found herself blushing even more under his scrutiny. She forced it down, meeting his gaze as he looked at her. "I need a cat burglar," he went on. "And before you, nobody has ever caught me by surprise before. Not one person."

She narrowed her eyes at him, slowly realizing what he wanted her to do. "You want to hire me."

He shrugged fluidly. "It pays well. And I have a feeling you're tired of hustling insignificant people for insignificant rewards. You have clever hands. You should use them to nick something worthwhile for once."

She contemplated it, weighing her options, the pros and the—well, the cons. She lifted her fingers to her lips, taking another long drag of smoke. "So what're you stealing?" she asked, exhaling a trail of smoke right into his face. 

He coughed, waving a hand in front of his face, blinking out at her bemusedly. "Vlad Țepeș' family ring," he said calmly once he'd lowered his hand. 

She nearly dropped her cigarette. "What?"

He merely raised an eyebrow at her. "You heard me."

"But... it's the most heavily guarded thing in the country," she said blankly. "And it's worth... what, ten million pounds?"

"Thirty million," he corrected, almost cheerfully. 

"We'll be caught," she protested. "It's crazy!"

"I know what I'm doing," he said. "And we've got his son on our side too. He's agreed to help, so it'll practically be a piece of cake. He guarantees access and close range, so you can make the lift easily."

"Me?" She felt lightheaded, and wished that she hadn't been smoking. "But... I've never..."

"Hey," he said. "If you could lift my fucking watch off my wrist and not have me notice, you can slip a ring off the most powerful tycoon in the continent, right? It'll be easy." Noticing her dazed expression, he softened a little. "And it isn't like you won't prepare. I'll make sure you're ready for it."

She bit her lip, thinking, debating furiously with herself. She swallowed, then blurted, "How did you know I'd be here now?"

He frowned. "What?"

"My shifts changed," she said. "How did you know I'd be here, right now, on a break?"

He smiled a little. "It's what I do," he said. "It's my job to know things. From what you had for breakfast to what Tube station you got off on to the timings of your breaks."

She raised her eyebrows. 

He grinned at her. "Toast and eggs, Baker Street, two to two-fifteen, and you break at five."

She snorted, taking another drag. "Stalker."

He merely shrugged. "I do what I have to." Then he crossed his arms, glancing at her expectantly. "So, what? You in, or do I have to send one of my men here to tail you so that you don't tell anyone what I'm planning after I've found another lifter?"

She sighed, another trail of smoke puffing from between her lips. "I'll think about it," she said haltingly. "Give me forty-eight hours."

"Deal," he said immediately, already turning away. "And get back to work before your boss bursts a vein, he's been glowering at you for the past ten minutes."

She dropped her gaze to her watch, and groaned when she realized she was almost twenty minutes late for her shift. She glanced inside, where she could see the manager glaring at her from behind the counter. _Fabulous._

"I'll call you," she said, turning, but the words trailed off, uncertain; the street was empty, nothing there but the wind. Trevor Belmont was gone. 

_Forty-right hours,_ she thought, uneasily opening the doors of the coffeeshop with a merry jingle of the bell. _That's enough time to think about this insane scheme._ Already with hope beginning to open in her chest like a tentative flower, she got back to work.

*

It turned out Sypha only needed fourteen hours to decide.

She called him the next day as he was thinking of heading for the rendezvous place Adrian had chosen—an abandoned factory outlet, one on the other side of town. It'd take him a couple of hours to get there with all the traffic, so he was moodily wondering whether to take a car or not when his phone rang. 

_Unknown Number,_ it read. 

He picked up. "Trevor Belmont."

"It's Sypha," said the voice on the other end. "I hope it's not a bad time?"

"No," he said, unlocking the door and stepping outside into the chilly evening air. "So what's it going to be? You in?"

"Yeah," she answered, sounding apprehensive. "Yeah, I think so."

"You think so? You have to be surer than that, little cat. I can't have you making a hesitant lift when the time comes."

He heard her make a frustrated sound. "Fine, I'm sure. I'm in."

"Brilliant." He locked the door behind him, moving down the steps. "You're done for the day, right?"

"Yeah, I'm heading home in ten. Why?"

"Don't. I'll text you an address, go to it. It'll take you a couple hours, so start now. We're meeting there."

"We?"

"The crew so far, which is basically just me, you and Țepeș. Don't freak when you see the place, it's an empty factory; we need secrecy, and nobody can overhear what we get done."

"Fine." She was already moving, he could tell from the faint strain of breathlessness in her voice and the sounds of traffic behind her. "You said you'll text the address?"

He stopped at the bottom of the steps, chewing on his lip. "No, actually—wait at the Tube station, I'll pick you up. It'll be faster."

"Baker Street."

"Be there in ten." He lowered the phone, moving to his car and dialing Adrian's number as he did. He closed the door, about to start the car, and was just about to disconnect the call since the damn guy wasn't picking up, when he picked up, sounding as annoyed as Trevor felt. 

"What is it, Belmont? I'm driving."

"Lifter's in." He started the car, pulling off the curb and onto the street. "She's coming too. I'm bringing her with me."

"She?"

"Got a problem with a girl being on the team, Țepeș?"

"No." He sounded distracted, and not entirely truthful. "Is she experienced? Have you met her before? What's her name?"

"Interrogate her yourself, pretty boy." He tapped a finger against the wheel. "I'm not saying a word. All I'll tell you is she's good. Good enough for this job—better, even."

"Fine. Be there in half an hour."

"Traffic's a bitch." He glanced out the window. "I'll be there in an hour, tops."

"Whatever. Just be there."

The line disconnected, and he made a face at the screen. "Who died and made you queen, jackass?" he muttered, then tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. Stupid, stuck-up Adrian Țepeș with his stupid pretty face and his stupid silky smooth voice and his spoiled-brat attitude. 

He had a feeling it'd be harder to get along with these two than it'd be to actually steal the goddamn ring at the end of the day, which wasn't a comforting thought. He sighed, stopping at a red light and gazing moodily at the people crossing the street in front of him. Well, it couldn't get any worse, could it?

But he had no idea how wrong he was.


	3. Adrian is Physically and Emotionally Incapable of a Good First Impression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which introductions are made, first meetings are had, and Adrian isn't very good at either of the aforementioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *it's been 84 years gif*

Adrian pulled up at the abandoned factory unit, getting out of his car and gazing out at it. It was massive, a shadow blocking out the evening sky, with drab cement walls covered in spider-webbing cracks that unfurled on its surface and splashes of mold and permanent water damage marring it as well. 

He sighed, moving forward towards the heavy-duty doors set into the wall. He'd made sure the whole place was locked down and empty, not even so much as a rat living inside. They needed the utmost secrecy for this, even if Adrian knew this probably wasn't going to be the base of their operations. Knowing Belmont, it would be somewhere more convenient, more practical and more accessible. 

His fingers wrapped around the handle of the doors and he yanked down, pulling it open. It gave with a low groan and clank, rust spraying into the air as he threw it open. He could see vaguely through the doors into the room beyond, a largeish space, unlit and musty-smelling. 

He looked back at the open space, his sleek black Aventador incongruous among the desolate landscape and the old, disused factory lot rising behind it. Casting one last glance at the sky, he ducked into the room, leaving the door open behind him. 

He moved immediately to the lights, pulling the heavy red lever down. There was hiss and a crackle, and the lights blinked on, flooding the room with dim greenish light that didn't exactly enhance the look of the place—it was plain, rectangular, with empty crates stacked on one side and a few rusty chairs stacked in the corner. The ceiling was stained and the floor was cracked, the walls peeling. 

All in all, not exactly his kind of place. 

He was debating whether or not the walls were clean enough to lean against when he heard the faint purr of an engine, and the sound of gravel crunching under tires. He glanced at the time—he was fifteen minutes late—and tapped a foot against the floor as he heard voices slowly approaching, one higher than the other. 

He still didn't know what to think of a woman joining the crew—they were usually unreliable in his experience, and sometimes they lacked the refined technique he expected to see. Moreover, he'd had a few rather unsavory exes that had made him more than a little wary of women in the past. 

He saw the shadows on the ground shift and then two figures ducked into the room, one familiar and the other entirely alien. There was Trevor, looking remarkably casual in black cargo pants, tough boots and a polo shirt, his hair messy as usual and a jacket slung over his shoulders. 

The girl beside him looked tiny in comparison, maybe a few inches above five feet tall. A sharp, pale face dusted with freckles dominated by huge, light-blue eyes, made even bluer by the sunset-colored hair that floated around her face in short, bouncy curls. She was cute, he thought immediately, then berated himself for it the moment he thought it. 

The second thing he noticed was how restless she was—she was constantly moving, her fingers tapping against her thigh, tucking her hair behind her ears, her eyes darting around and her feet tapping unceasingly on the ground. She seemed to see everything around her, and assess it and interpret it, all in half a second. 

They stopped a few feet from Adrian, and the girl glanced at him, her gaze unreadable. Her eyes flicked across his face, then slid down the rest of his body, as if they were taking him apart like he was a machine, then slewed back up to his face. Her eyes were calculating and curious, and made him uneasy for some reason.

Trevor cleared his throat. "So now that we're all here—"

"I'm Sypha," the girl said, in her high, clear voice. She had a faint accent—Spanish, he thought vaguely. That explained her coloring. She held out a hand, still with that uneasily enigmatic expression. 

"Adrian," he supplied, shaking her hand. Her skin was warm and soft, her touch firm. The fingers that would eventually slip his father's ring off his hand, he thought faintly, and the thought made him pull away for some reason, apprehensive. 

She seemed to sense it and said nothing, merely smiling a little. Trevor glanced between them as if he too had picked up on the slight tension in the air, but he said nothing of it, merely said, "Right. So we all know why we're here. This is the crew so far—"

"So far?" Sypha interrupted, raising an eyebrow at Trevor, who shrugged. "Can't pull off a successful heist with three fucking people, you know. And we're not stealing a cheap piece of costume jewelry, we're nicking the most valuable thing in the country, arguably."

"Maybe," she said, "but this is something that needs more secrecy than anything more than three people can afford. The more the people, the less the guarantee everyone will do what you hire them to do." A faint shadow crossed her face. "And you're not the only one with money. We're thieves; money is all we care about."

He glanced down at her, enigmatic. "Are you telling me that if someone offers you more than I am, you'll stab me in the back, little cat?"

"That," she said, "depends on how much you're offering me. And my name is _Sypha_ , by the way."

He laughed. "Oh, I'm offering you cash, sure—but I'm also offering you a chance to finally start that dream project of yours, the one that you've wanted since you were a chubby primary schoolgirl. Where else would you get closure for that, hmm?"

Her eyes flashed. "How do you know about that?"

"I have my ways," he said easily, hands in his pockets. "Look, three people isn't enough. We need at least fifteen people to pull this one off—"

"No," Adrian said. 

They both turned to look at him. 

"No?" Trevor echoed, and he managed to make it sound soft and like a threat at the same time. 

Adrian straightened. "No. Three people—that's enough. I know how we can manage. If it goes the way I think it could, then we don't need anyone else. She's right; people are slippery these days, Belmont. Who's to say you won't find yourself betrayed at the last moment by someone who doesn't have much to lose?"

Trevor ground his teeth together. "Three people," he said, "is the most ridiculous—"

"Three people," agreed Adrian, "one of whom happens to be the son of the man you're lifting that ring off—and a rightful owner of that ring too, an heir. I can get you in anywhere, and I can get you out. Anything more than you two and we won't be able to take the ring, much less even be allowed anywhere."

"So you have a plan, then?" Sypha asked, and again, that careful neutrality of her voice, everything about her designed to give nothing away. "You've already thought about how to get us in and out?"

"More or less. We'll have to get close weeks in advance first, however. Then we can put it together."

"So you know when to do it?" In Trevor's mouth it sounded like a challenge, and Adrian took the bait, taking a step forward towards him. "Yes. Three months from now, my father is going to do what he does best—which is trying to knock me out of the competition."

Trevor scowled at him. "So what? That's just—"

Adrian held up a hand, going on. "He hosts a sort of gala, a ball really—one where he makes sure to buy as many people's ideas as he can to get rid of me. He's at his most vulnerable there."

"How the fuck—"

"Will you just shut up and listen to me for one minute, Belmont?" He glared at Trevor and he glared right back. "He's willing to listen to anything anyone has to say. He doesn't care. Even if the person pitching their idea to him..." He crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Is a Belmont."

"You're joking." Trevor shook his head. "He won't give two shits about anything I've got to offer."

"Just imagine the kind of embarrassment it'll be for me," Adrian said, "if I asked you just a few months prior to help me and you turned me down, only for you to deliberately go to my father afterward?"

"A lie within a lie," said Sypha, and she sounded impressed. "It's bold, and it's fucking brilliant."

Adrian turned to look at her, leaning against a rickety table a few paces away. She dropped him the slightest of nods and he felt his lips kick up into a faint smile almost against his will. He turned back to Trevor, who was watching him with an unreadable look on his face. 

"So that's your plan," he said, deadpan.

"The skeleton of it, yes. We'll have to flesh it out as we go along, I suppose."

He narrowed his eyes, gazing at Adrian as if scrutinizing and taking everything apart and mulling over Adrian's words in his head, and not for the first (nor the last) time, it struck Adrian that he was much, much cleverer than he let people realize. And perhaps more than he himself knew. 

"Fuck me," he said finally, heaving an overdramatic sigh. "Fine, we'll do it. But if anything goes wrong, Țepeș, I'm blaming you, and it's also up to you or one of your rich cronies to bail us out of jail if it comes to it."

Adrian laughed. "Deal. I'll also buy us dinner if you'll indulge me for a few more hours; there's a lot more that needs to be discussed, and I can't stay in this disgusting place for another minute."

Trevor checked his watch. "Fine. But make sure it's crowded, we can't be heard. And make it snappy, I need to be somewhere an hour after midnight and I can't be late."

Adrian waved a hand, already turning towards the door. "Whatever," he said. "Just follow me in your car and we'll be fine."

*

"So," said Sypha, rummaging for something in her purse, "why do you want to steal your father's ring?"

She was sitting beside him in the passenger seat of his car, after Trevor had announced that he had to take 'an important business call' on the way and couldn't be disturbed in any way (moreover Adrian suspected that it was something they weren't supposed to hear). As he reached down to shift the gear out of parking, he saw the hem of her short skirt ride up, exposing more of her already thoroughly exposed thighs, her pale skin smooth and unmarked beneath the lace of her stockings as she reached up to buckle herself in. 

He looked up and glanced away hastily, feeling his cheeks warm. He cleared his throat, hoping she hadn't noticed him noticing as he said, "It's... complicated. And a long story."

She pulled something compact and silver out of her bag, raising an eyebrow at him. "It's a long way to London," she said. "And I'm a good listener." She flipped the lid of the silver thing she was holding—which he now saw was a little box—and drew something white and oblong out of it, holding it out. "Cigarette?"

He glanced at her, taking the proffered cigarette and dipping his head, lifting it to his lips. "Thanks."

She wordlessly held out a lighter and he leaned forward to allow her to ignite the end, sitting back with a puff of smoke once it did. She lit her own, rolling the window down as she leaned back, exhaling and painting the air in front of her with smoke. He contemplated for a moment, rolling his own window down as he tried to figure out where to start. 

"My mother died a few years ago," he said, talking expertly around the cigarette in his mouth, "and my father, he had only ever wanted what was best for me. He always wanted me to do what he does, take over the family business, never really have a future of my own. My mother was the mediator, always reminding him of my own dreams and aspirations."

"Which were?" She cranked the window down further, tapping the ash off the end of her cigarette onto the pavement streaking below. It was desolate almost out here, as far from the city as they were. He gazed straight ahead, at the road stretching out in front of them, snaking away towards the horizon. 

"I wanted to do what she did," he said. "I wanted to become a doctor, wanted to help people like she did. I suppose it was an irony, then, when she died."

She turned to him, and he could see the unasked question in her face. He sighed, a trail of smoke escaping between his lips. "Cancer," he said. 

She looked up at him, and her eyes were very blue in the growing dusk. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It was a long time ago. Anyhow, after she died it was as if her counsel had never been. My father was ruthless, insistent that I lift the burden from him so that he could grieve in peace. But it was when she died that I became sure of my decision to carry on what she had done and give as she gave. But he didn't like that."

He took a hand off the wheel, lifting a hand to take the cigarette between his fingers and taking a long, satisfying and faintly burning drag of it. "He and I, the night she died, we had this terrible fight. It was fueled by our grief, of course, but that was also what made it more honest. It escalated and escalated until I finally had enough. I told him I would live my own life, not his, and I left home."

"You had, like..." She gestured, and a bit of ash fell onto her skirt. She brushed it off, lifting the cigarette to her lips again. "Money and shit, right?"

He laughed a little, blowing out a long trail of smoke. "No," he said. "Nothing. I left with nothing but the clothes I was wearing and what little I had on me at the time."

She huffed out a little incredulous sound. "So where did you go from there?"

"I crashed at a friend's place for a few weeks," he said, remembering those first few days with the sort of fondness one feels when they look back on the lowest days of their life. "I just drank and drank for days on end, knowing I'd just fucked up to the degree where I'd be basically homeless from then onward. I was about two bar crawls away from becoming an alcoholic and destroying my life."

"But?"

"But... I suppose one day I just woke up and decided that I hated my father and that I'd do whatever it took to get even. More than even. I wanted to humiliate him in front of all his stuck-up, rich friends who he talked trash about them behind their backs and who talked trash about him behind his. I wanted to kick him down like he kicked me down, and I wanted him to know it was me."

He shrugged equably, taking another pull of the cigarette. "Maybe that was just the over-reaching dreams of a vengeful and maybe even rather deluded drunk, but I did do what I wanted to—in part, anyway."

"Huh." She leaned back in her seat, puffing contemplatively on her cigarette. "How?"

He scoffed a little. "Well... not to sing my own praises," he said, "but to put it shortly, I amassed my own business in medicine and rose up so high I kicked my father off the charts and kept his name as I did it so everybody knew that Vlad Țepeș' golden boy hadn't done what everyone expected him to do. I also spoke candidly to the press about what happened the night I left home so that everyone knew exactly what had happened."

She laughed softly. "That's... I have no idea what to say."

"'Bratty' doesn't really cover all the corners, does it?" He snorted. "Selfish, maybe. Narcissistic. Petty."

"Smart works too." She blew a cloud of smoke, kicking off her uncomfortable-looking red pumps and flexing her toes. "So does ambitious, and independent. There are a lot of ways to look at people."

"And how might I look at you?" 

She scoffed, shaking her head. "There are also some people," she said, "who you shouldn't look at at all."

"And if I want to look at them?"

She went still for a second—just barely a moment, so briefly he wondered if he'd imagined it. A second later she leaned back, swinging her legs up and putting her bare feet up on the dashboard of the car, her hair whipping around her face with the wind. Her skirt rode up even further and an involuntary, inarticulate sound escaped his lips, one that sounded partly surprised, partly embarrassed and partly aroused. Which pretty much summed up how he felt in that one fleeting second he saw the lacy black tops of her stockings, and—oh, God—the unmistakable strap of a garter belt disappearing up her thighs.

He tore his eyes away, looking steadfastly at the road ahead. No, he was not going to go there. They were to maintain a professional, work relationship only, and he wasn't going to think about her pale creamy skin or her smooth thighs or the sight of that fucking garter belt—

"People see what they want to see," she said, breaking him out of his mental tirade. He jumped guiltily, hastily taking another drag of his cigarette. "I suppose you'll have to do the same."

"We'll see," was all he said in reply, flicking the stub that was left of his cigarette out the window. "There's more to all of us than meets the eye."

She laughed as she stubbed the remains of her cigarette onto the ashtray between their seats, and it was a short, bitter sound. "With people like us, there always is."

*

Sypha slammed the car door shut behind her, taking a moment to admire the vehicle out of which she'd just stepped. It was easily the sexiest car she'd ever seen, much less sat in; but then again, she used the Tube.

Trevor had parked a few rows away, and as she shivered in the cold nighttime air, pulling her sweater further around herself to keep the chill at bay, she heard the purr of his engine come to a stop, then the sound of a car door slamming shut. He came around to meet them in front of Adrian's car, hands in his pockets. 

"This way," Adrian said, gesturing for them to follow as he moved down the street. His hair caught the pale streetlights that spilled their colorless shine onto the pavement, and the thick golden curls seemed to shimmer. He somehow managed to look perfect despite having spent the last two hours driving, and also somehow managed to make dress pants and a turtleneck look like haute couture. It was somewhere between infuriating and mesmerizing. 

A few minutes later he stopped at a door, pulling it open and sweeping a short, ironic bow. "After you," he said, gesturing grandly.

Trevor snorted as he walked inside. "A Starbucks? Really? This is your idea of a business dinner?"

"We're hardly dressed for my idea of a business dinner," Adrian said dryly as Sypha walked in after Trevor, letting the door fall shut behind them. "And it's usually crowded in here, so we won't be overheard."

Trevor made a noncommittal sound of what Sypha assumed was assent as he slid into a chair at a secluded little table at a corner, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Sypha perched on a pouf beside him as Adrian draped his jacket on the seat across from them, saying something about taking their orders at the counter. 

There was a brief flurry of discussion as they told him what they wanted ("Really, just a muffin is fine," Sypha insisted to Adrian's protests of getting something more 'filling'. "I'm not hungry, really", after which she'd caved and ordered a caramel latte) and how they wanted it ("What name shall I say?" Adrian asked, leaning down to hear them. "In case you don't want to give your real name?", to which Trevor had rolled his eyes and said, "Who cares if a fucking Starbucks has my name, I don't give a shit—fine, just say Lord Voldemort or something, we'll give those poor sods a laugh if nothing else.") after which he excused himself to give their orders.

"So what do you think of him?" Trevor asked as the last vestiges of Adrian's hair disappeared around the counter. "Now that you've had a chance to talk."

"So that's why you insisted you'd go alone." She sighed. "He's... he's intelligent, and sometimes even witty, in his way. But he's hiding something, or several somethings. I couldn't really glean much." 

"He's a stuck-up bastard, is what he is." He sighed expansively. "People with too much money than they know what to do with always are. None of them are incorruptible. There's no way you don't go wrong with money like that, and rep like his. He may seem nice now, but that asshole lives in fucking _Centre Point_. His apartment costs more money than the Queen. He'll show us his ugly face sooner or later."

"Or maybe you're just being a dick." She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not one to talk, but maybe sometimes people aren't inherently bad, Belmont. Even if they live in Centre Point." Then she paused. "Does he really?"

He snorted. "Yeah. It's crazy."

"Wow." She sat back in her seat. "I didn't know anyone even had enough money to buy the penthouse there."

"Just you wait," he said darkly. "The longer you stick around for this job, the more people like him you're going to meet. Rich people—really, really rich people. Not even my kind of rich, or his kind of rich. I mean the people who are up there with the fucking gods. People who can make the world or break it. That's how much power they have."

"Money isn't power," she heard herself say faintly, her eyes lingering on the counter, where Adrian was smiling charmingly at the flustered-looking barista as he relayed their orders. She felt something in her chest tighten as he said something that made her laugh, and at the way his eyes softened as she did. 

Trevor laughed, shaking his head, and she thought she saw his eyes tracking Adrian too, but when she looked again she couldn't be sure. "By the time we finish this and have what we want," he said, looking away, "mark my words, you're not going to believe that anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is appreciated and by appreciated i mean devoured and desperately hoped for. (◕‿◕✿)


	4. Three Suspicious Dumbasses Try to Get Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sypha yet again judges Trevor, shit starts to get real and Adrian gets called out on his bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentine's day loves <3
> 
> also who else is super fuckin pumped for the trailer for s3 that we were mercilessly teased about on twitter?!?!?!

"It'll be ready in five. Take a seat." Sypha forced a smile at the man at the counter, scribbling his order—a truly ridiculous amalgamation of espresso, caramel and matcha that she didn't think was normal, or should have been legal—onto a venti cup and passing it along. 

Elliot glanced at it and his eyes went wide, and he shot her a look of pure horror. She bit back a laugh and shrugged, nodding at the espresso machine. _The customer is always an asshole,_ she mouthed, and he grinned at her before turning to make the order. 

She'd gotten about two hours of sleep the previous night, owing to Adrian's impromptu meeting taking till three in the morning. They'd left the Starbucks at eleven, then had all squeezed into Trevor's Porsche and had talked and talked until all three of them had been in danger of falling asleep. 

She sighed, leaning against the wall behind the counter for a moment, massaging her temples with the tips of her fingers. She could feel a headache coming on, and her nerves were frazzled from overwork. _Just a few more weeks,_ she told herself. _Then you'll be rolling in so much cash that you can quit and never work again and still have a fortune left over when you die._

"Hey, Sypha?" She glanced up, opening her eyes, to see Elliot looking at her with an all-too familiar look of hopeful openness. She felt her stomach sink as he moved to lean next to her, effectively trapping her between the wall and himself. She made herself smile at him, hoping desperately he wasn't about to do what she thought he was going to do. 

"Hey, sorry Elliot," she said. "I'm really fucking tired, I'm zoning out every three seconds."

He laughed. "It's all right, I get it," he said, clearly not getting it. "I was just wondering if you wanted to get coffee later, after we break. I know a place a few streets away, it's pretty cozy."

She clenched her jaw, schooling her features into a pleasantly bland expression. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm just totally knackered." Only a few years in London and she was already using British slang. It grew on you. "Not today, but maybe some other time, okay?" 

He didn't back off, turning towards her. "Come on, Sypha, you say that every time. Don't you like spending time with me?"

She grit her teeth. "Of course I do, I just—look, Elliot, I don't know how many times I've told you this, but I don't think of you that way. You're a friend of mine, and a colleague, and that's all. I don't want to make this worse than it is."

"You don't mean that." He wasn't budging, not allowing her to leave. "It's all right, you just don't know how you feel yet. If you just give me a chance I can prove you wrong."

"I don't owe you anything," she said, stiffly. "Don't tell me how I feel, Elliot, you don't know the first thing about me."

"But if you just let me—"

She heard someone clear their throat, and a second later a voice said, "I'm pretty sure she means she's not interested, mate. Take a gentle hint and clear off, why don't you?"

They both turned, startled—and Sypha's eyes widened when she saw Trevor standing at the counter, eyebrows raised. He smirked at her, a hand lifting to brush his hair out of his eyes. He dropped her a small wink and she bit her lip to stop her smile. 

Elliot scowled at him, and Sypha seized the distraction, shoving past him. "What are you doing here?" she hissed to Trevor, who raised an eyebrow. "What, now I can't just drop by and grab a"—he smirked expectantly—"peppermint latte with seven shots of espresso?"

She stared at him. "Do you want to fucking die?"

"You tell me." He grinned at her. 

"Sypha," Elliot said, elbowing his way to her side, "who is this?" He glared at Trevor. "Do you know this guy?"

"Uh," Sypha said, sharpie poised on a large cup. "He... he's... my..."

"Sugar daddy," Trevor said in a low, conspiratorial stage whisper, leaning forward and winking at Elliot, who looked mortified. 

Sypha choked on a breath, making an inelegant sound. _"Trevor,"_ she said. "What the fuck?"

"Oh, you haven't told anyone about me yet?" He grinned, clearly enjoying himself immensely, placing a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded, Sypha, I thought you bragged about me to all your friends. This is disappointing."

She shut her eyes for a moment, not knowing whether she wanted to burst out laughing or spontaneously combust. "Look," she said, scribbling Trevor's order onto the cup and shoving it into an appalled Elliot's hands, "just—make the fucking coffee. I get off in ten," she said, turning to Trevor, who was smiling serenely. "Wait outside, I don't want you in here."

"Yeah, these tables aren't big enough for what I had in mind, you're right," he said with mock-seriousness, looking around and nodding. "And on second thought, exhibitionism isn't really my thing either—"

She put her face in her hands. "Just... wait outside, Trevor. I'll meet you with your stupid coffee."

He laughed, tossing a couple bills onto the counter and turning away. "See you then."

Once the door of the coffeeshop had shut behind him she turned back to Elliot, who looked horrified. "Sypha," he said, apparently struggling to get the words out, "is... is that really..."

"No," she sighed. "He's just a... business associate of sorts. We're not... I mean..." She cleared her throat. "You know. We're just colleagues."

He looked relieved. "Oh. Okay."

"That doesn't change my answer," she said, untying her apron and grabbing her bag from where she'd stuffed it under the counter. "I'm still not interested, Elliot. And he was right—learn to take a fucking hint, okay?" With that she ducked into the lockers to change, fuming silently and leaving a stunned Elliot holding Trevor's order. 

She stepped out a second later, her work clothes stuffed into her bag, and snatched the coffee where it was waiting on the counter. She ignored Elliot's attempt to stop her as she sidestepped him, moving out from under the counter and speeding through the coffeeshop and out the door. 

The street outside was empty, and she looked around for a second, startled and even a little hurt, that he'd left, that he hadn't waited—when she caught sight of a messy black head of hair through the window in a bookstore across the street. She sighed, crossing as quickly as she could and opening the door. 

His back was to her as he examined a book on the shelf in front of him, and she moved over to stand beside him, elbowing him hard in the side as she did. He jumped, swore, then stopped short when he saw her. He laughed, swiping the coffee from her and taking a sip of it. "What?"

"You asshole," she muttered. "I hate you."

"He deserved it." He lifted the cup to his lips again. How he was drinking that absolute abomination with a straight face she had no idea. "How long has he been harassing you like that?"

"He's not harassing me." She tugged the strap of her bag up her shoulder where it had been slipping down her arm. "And it doesn't matter. It's fine."

"Yeah?" He raised an eyebrow. "And when he takes advantage of how allowing you are? When he takes your silence as an invitation? Then what?"

She looked away. "My personal business is none of yours," was all she said. 

He shrugged, letting it go graciously. "Fine."

"So what are you doing here?"

He slid the book he'd been examining back into its place on the shelf, taking another sip of coffee with a shrug. "We need to be working all day, every day. That deadline is getting closer, we need to start planning in earnest. Țepeș can only get us one opening, we have to snatch it."

She blinked at the shelf. "You want me to quit my job," she realized. "You want me to quit and... move somewhere? Somewhere secret?"

"You know how these things work," he said. "You have to be available every second. We could need you at any time. You have to be on hand constantly, and with you living in the South, Adrian near the West End and me at West Central, we're too far away to rendezvous at a moment's notice. So," he said, and she noticed he didn't sound very pleased, "Adrian has been... _generous_ enough to let us stay at his place when we need to meet." 

"You want me to move into Centre Point?" she asked, incredulous. "No way."

"Not full-time," he assured her. "Just for most of the week. You can go back to your place on weekends, at night if you want, and when we don't need you. Otherwise yeah, you'll need to be there whenever you can be. And besides that, we have a base of operations now. We'll be doing all the dirty work there. So you're going to have to stay there. All of us will be."

"Thrilling," she sighed. "Living part time in a bunker with you two, and when it's not the bunker it's Centre Point. This sounds fabulous."

"Bunker?" Trevor grinned at her. "When you see the place I got for us," he said, "you, Miss Sypha, are going to eat your words."

*

"Okay," Sypha said, sounding faint. "I've eaten my words."

Trevor allowed himself a grin when she wasn't looking, spinning around to face her as he walked backwards into the base with his arms out. "Welcome to our humble heist base," he said. "This is where we do it all—infiltrating, hacking, planning, all that jazz. We stay here... well, almost all the time. Most of the time. So this is home away from home for a few weeks. Get used to it."

"Won't take much getting used to," Sypha said, moving forward, her eyes like saucers. "This place is amazing."

He had to admit he was proud of the place, having secured it after years of trying. It was huge, a massive house right in the middle of the city. Hiding in plain sight was a tactic that almost always worked, and he preferred it to seclusion. It looked like a normal house from outside, but the inside was converted into a huge, cavernous space, filled with equipment and tech. 

A curved flight of steps led upward, where the second floor was entirely devoted to living space. It was hardly economical; it was pretty luxurious, even for Trevor. Well, they deserved to live with some dignity, he supposed, despite being thieves.

Sypha was just moving up the staircase when the door banged open and Adrian swept inside, head to toe in Chanel as usual, dressed in a dark blue suit and with his stupidly perfect hair looking perfect as usual, holding a briefcase and speaking rapidly on his phone with someone who was buzzing angrily on the other end.

"Not Friday, I can't do Friday," he was saying, completely ignoring Sypha and Trevor. "Or the next week, I'm busy."

He heard someone's fuzzy voice on the other end, and he raised a brow at Adrian, who gestured for him to wait, looking miffed. "I don't care if he's been waiting for six months, he can wait a few more weeks. My schedule isn't flexible, and I'm a far busier man than you might think. I don't have time for your client, and that's final. Thank you." He heard some more angry buzzing on the other end, but Adrian cut the call, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. 

He looked up at Trevor and Sypha watching him with their brows raised, and he glanced between them, his own brows lifting. "What?"

"Nothing," Trevor forced himself to say. "So now that we're all here—"

"I can't stay," Adrian said, sounding distracted. "I have a meeting at eight, I have to be out of here by seven."

"Listen here, you little brat," Trevor snapped, stepping forward towards Adrian, having lost patience at last. "You signed up for this, you told me you wanted in, and you said you'd be serious about this. We're not nicking some small-budget piece of costume jewelry, we're stealing _your_ dad's fucking ring. You know better than we do how big a deal this is, and we don't have time to allow for your stupid attitude and your absolutely ridiculously huge ego. If we don't give as many fucks as we can possibly give and actually make a damn effort, then guess what? All three of us are going to jail. And you know your dear old daddy is going to make sure we're in there for the rest of our lives if we're caught. So you might want to care a little more, you might want to be a little more devoted to this, because none of us want to know what's going to happen if you aren't."

Adrian stared at him, looking stunned. Sypha was watching wide-eyed from the stairs, looking faintly entertained. There was silence for five seconds, ten, fifteen, then twenty—

Adrian drew his phone out of his pocket, and Trevor eyed it suspiciously as he lifted it to his ear, turning away as he did. "It's Adrian," he said, voice carefully neutral. "Tell the board I can't make it today." A pause. "No, it's non-negotiable." Another pause. "Fine, then cancel it." Some concerned muttering on the other end. "Tell them I'll reschedule when I see fit, and that I won't take no for an answer." He disconnected, then turned to Trevor with a challenging look in his eye. He raised an eyebrow. 

"Good," Trevor muttered, slightly embarrassed and not without some chagrin. "Anyway." He cleared his throat. "Now that we're all here, we need to start actually planning shit so we can—you know."

"Steal the most valuable piece of jewelry in the country right off the most powerful business tycoon in the country's finger," Sypha supplied, descending the stairs and moving towards them. He shrugged. "Basically. It's not going to be easy, especially since we're only numbered three, so we have to be all the more careful we don't fuck this up."

"Right," Sypha said, scrabbling around in her bag for something. A second later she held something out to him, an expectant eyebrow raised. "Cigarette?"

He looked at her, bemused. "I don't smoke."

She shrugged equably. "More for us, then." She held it out to Adrian instead, who took it silently. "So," Sypha said, lighting up and exhaling a puff of smoke as she glanced between Adrian and Trevor. "Shall we sit?"

Which was how, five minutes later he found himself sitting squeezed between Adrian and Sypha on the couch near the back of the room, a table strewn all over with papers in front of them. "Right," he said. "This year that stupid gala of your dad's"—he glanced at Adrian, who remained stony-faced and expressionless—"is in London, so that's pretty convenient."

"We got remarkably lucky," Adrian said stiffly. "Last year it was in Romania."

"And the year before that it was Spain," Sypha said, scrolling through a page on her phone and evidently having just looked up the location. "Did you do this on purpose?" She glanced at him and he tried as hard as he could not to preen. "Maybe a little. I heard rumors, and the people I hear rumors from are usually never wrong."

"The same people clearly told you about me," said Adrian, his cigarette dangling between his fingers elegantly. This prick could even make smoking a cheap cigarette look hot. What an ass. 

Trevor only shrugged. "When you have as many connections underground and over it as I do, you learn to listen to the people you know. Anyway, this thing is on Whitehall, which is in Westminster, so we'll have to be pretty—"

"Wait," said Sypha, leaning forward. "Whitehall? You're telling me this thing is in the fucking _Banqueting House?"_

"You're learning," Trevor said, grinning. "Yeah, this guy rented the Banqueting House for a fucking business party. Crazy, isn't it?"

"This is nothing compared to his other venues," Adrian said, sighing. "When I was little he had it at Vaux-le-Vicomte. He never leaves Europe, but he makes up for it every year, I suppose. It's rather irritating."

"It's insufferable," Trevor muttered. "What, you like reminding everyone you cost more money than Bill Gates?"

"When you have that much money, you would," Adrian said, examining his cigarette before taking a drag of it. "It's one of the reasons I considered buying my father's company when I hit the first billion dollars." He sighed a trail of smoke. "To take that power away from him."

"But you didn't," Trevor observed. "Why?"

"It would feel hollow," Adrian said, not meeting his eye. "I didn't want to destroy his empire in one stroke, I wanted to bring it down brick by brick. Sweeping it all away just like that seemed... not good enough."

"You're a fucking ruthless cold-hearted bastard, you know that?" Trevor sighed. "And a total brat."

Adrian laughed. "So I've been told." Then he leaned forward, his shoulder brushing against Trevor's lightly. Despite the cigarette smoke he could smell the scent of his skin beneath—clean, plain soap and wine, and... was that marshmallows? 

He gave a slight shake of his head to dislodge the wayward thoughts, focusing on the task at hand. He didn't have time to be attracted to stuck-up, spoiled-brat rich boys, no matter how good they smelled or how pretty they were. There were more important things to think about. 

"I can get us in," Adrian was saying as Trevor yanked himself back to the present. "Easily, since we're only three. You'll be easier to squeeze past the people who handle the invitations, since your family is a well-known one, and their business is popular, not to mention they're rich enough to be allowed in," he went on, bumping Trevor's shoulder lightly with his own. "Sypha, I'll have to make a few excuses, fabricate a few alibis here and there. If they buy it, we're good to go."

"Fine then," Sypha said. "So this thing is in August?"

"The twenty-third," Adrian confirmed. "Yes."

"A good month and a half away," Sypha said. "We have to plan that whole time?"

"If we don't plan every single day until then, we might as well turn ourselves in when the time comes," Adrian said, flicking a bit of ash off his lap. "This has to be perfect. Our grifting, hacking, lifting and leaving have to be perfectly timed, and our skills have to be top-notch."

"So does that ring have its own Secret Service?" Sypha asked, frowning around Trevor's shoulder. "Security? Spies? Assassins?"

"Weirdly enough, no," Trevor said, pulling up the right webpage on his laptop and peering into the screen. _"Vlad Țepeș' family ring, said to have been worn by every first male of each generation of the Țepeș family, contains a drop of blood of the very first of the lineage in its diamond, a rare Red Diamond mined from an unknown location by the first of the Țepeș family himself."_

He scrolled down further, then continued reading:

_"The gold used is dark but one of the purest forms of the metal in the world, and is said to fit only the fingers of men of the family. It is valued at roughly thirty million pounds..._ blah blah blah.... _has never been kept in a safe..._ blah blah blah... _is the rarest piece of jewelry in the world as of now..._ blah blah blah... Ah, here we go." He squinted at the words. _"Despite being arguably the most expensive piece of jewelry in the country, with competition only from the Queen's jewels in the Tower of London, the ring has next to no security of its own, upon an insistence for the same by its current owner, Vlad Țepeș."_

"He insists on not making a fuss about it," Adrian said, puffing contemplatively on his cigarette. Trevor refrained from coughing or gagging with difficulty as he turned towards him, a cloud of the stuff floating right into his face. "I suppose he just wants to make a statement; he never told me why he doesn't bother with any security."

"Well, it says here that the only security it has is perfunctory stuff that's there for him, so its protection is an extension of his own and not anything by or for itself," said Trevor, reaching the end of the page. "The rest is just crap about why it's so valuable and its history and shit."

He turned to Adrian, frowning. "It says here that once the male heir to the family turns twenty-one the ring goes to him until he has children," he said. "So shouldn't it be yours? I mean—you're not old, but you're definitely older than twenty-one."

"I'm twenty-six," Adrian sighed. "And yes, the year I left home that ring was supposed to be mine. So five years ago. But after our... altercation, and after my father and I lost all contact, he's worn it ever since, just to spite me. It's supposed to be mine, yes. And that's most of the reason I agreed to do this." He gestured all around him, at Trevor beside him and Sypha beside Trevor, at the huge room and the plans on the table, plans to steal from his own father. 

"That ring is his pride right now," he went on. "His pride, and his message to me. Taking it will tip the scales. It'll be a message of my own, one that says that I'm still..." He cleared his throat, taking another pull of his cigarette, and Trevor noticed distantly that his hands were shaking slightly. "I'm still his son, and he brought this on himself when he turned me away." 

He looked away, stubbing out the end of his cigarette on the ashtray on the table as he did. He sat back, long legs crossed one over the other, folded his arms and glared at the floor. 

"All right then," Sypha said in a clearly transparent attempt to lighten the mood, her voice bright. He supposed one had to appreciate her for trying. "Now that we all know the bare minimum, there's this Chinese place a block from here that makes a mean mu shu pork. And they're cheap."

She whipped her phone out of her pocket, punching in the address as she glanced up at Trevor and Adrian's startled expressions. She rolled her eyes. "Come on," she said. "You're telling me neither of you have ever ordered really shitty, greasy Chinese food that decreases your lifespan by twelve years? Never?"

Adrian caught Trevor's eye, and they both looked away hastily. "No?" Trevor tried, looking back at Sypha.

She sighed, shaking her head. "Adrian Țepeș and Trevor Belmont," she said, holding up her phone with a glint in her eye, "let me introduce you to the wonder that is Chinese takeout."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ight so those of you who don't live in london like i do and have no clue what the fuck i'm going on about, here's a quick geography/finance/history lesson:
> 
> -centre point is the most fucking expensive apartment in london. it's insane how much that penthouse costs, it's like 55 million pounds.  
> -trevor lives in kensington palace gardens, which is yet another ridiculously affluent part of the city. literal billionaires live there. i drive past that place every day and they're all actual fucking mansions.  
> -the banqueting house is the literal only surviving piece of the palace of whitehall and was built in like the 1600s. it's a tourist attraction like 99% of the time, but people can rent the hall out for galas/weddings at the humble price of 15,000 pounds. :)  
> -vaux-le-vicomte is a baroque chateau in france and was also built in the 1600s. it is, also like the banqueting house, a tourist attraction most of the time, but you can rent the place out for galas/weddings at the humble price of 330,000 pounds. :)
> 
> on an unrelated note if yall wondering why i spell like an american despite living in london, its because my tongue and in extension i was born in the us, and moved to london with my wife who is british when we got married. despite loving london and speaking like a posh british person now, i refuse to use british spelling. 
> 
> on another unrelated note im really glad i made that brexit joke in chapter 1 bc that shit finally fucking happened. 
> 
> thanks for reading, and come yell at me about castlevania on [tumblr](https://assetessa555.tumblr.com/)!

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a crazy idea that sprang fully formed in my brain while listening to Adele's _Rumor Has It_. I don't know why or how it happened, but it led me here, so oh well.


End file.
